


Silence

by Loversarelosers



Series: All the pretty places [1]
Category: Chicago Med
Genre: Depression, Gen, Sad, please read the warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 05:26:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14301753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loversarelosers/pseuds/Loversarelosers
Summary: When it all comes crashing down, Connor doesn’t say anything.





	Silence

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I loved Chicago Med's latest episode. And Maia Frisch? More like extreme bitch, am I right? Sorry, that was rude. Hi guys, back for a quick and sad little thing I put together pretty quickly. Hope you like it, read and review. 
> 
> WARNINGS(please read): CONTAINS (though not very detailed) DEPRESSION DESRIPTIONS. CONTAINS REFRENCES TO SUICIDE AND SUICIDE IDEATION, REFRENCED TO BUT NOT GRAPHIC EMOTIONAL/PHYSICAL/SEXUAL ABUSE, POST ABUSE HABITS, REFERENCES TO SELF HARM AND SELF INFLICTED PAIN. REFRENCES TO DISASSOCIATION. can be read as selective mute!Connor but was not intended to be.

 Silence 

  
When Dr. Latham tells him to stop being a diva, he doesn’t say anything. He can’t say anything, actually, because if he does he fears he’s going to puke all over the floor. This is what he is left with after all these years. So he keeps his mouth shut and pretends he doesn’t taste bile in the back of his throat. When Natalie looked at him with disappointed eyes he stared at the ground, unable to look at her. He almost flinches when they tell him to not be overconfident, but instead he squares his shoulders and congratulates Ava. It’s for the better.

When Ava apologizes, even though she did nothing, he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t make eye contact, he just stitches up a patient’s arm. It’s in the early hours of the morning and the E.R. is almost empty. He sits there, next to an unconscious but stable patient, letting his hands tie perfect knots in the stitches, just like Downey had taught him. The only doctor left is Will, who is half asleep by his computer. Connor wishes he could sleep. He makes a last stitch, cuts the thread, and leans back, absorbing the world.

When Will asks him if he’s alright, he doesn’t say anything. He’s walking away anyway, so he pretends not to hear the other doctor. He wants to go down to the pathology lab so he can practice his techniques on the deceased. He does that,  
sometimes, in the empty hours where he feels like this. He feels Will’s stare at his retreating back but pretends not to notice. He hits the elevator button and breathes in, trying to reclaim the feelings that he owned.

When he reaches the lab and Sarah passes him in the hall, he doesn’t say anything. She just glances at him like she would a patient: calculating. He’s not about to tell her anything, but he sees her move to speak anyway. She closes her mouth at the last moment and gives him a small nod. He manages to return it. It’s later when he realizes that he was biting his tongue so hard he drew blood. He doesn’t wait for her to say hello, he just keeps walking, step by foreboding step.

When the lab doors swing open and a doctor leaves, he doesn’t say anything. She’s pretty. She has brown hair. On a better day, he could probably describe it as chocolate and cream, but in his head he just thinks it’s the color of mud. It’s nice mud, at least. She smiles at him and he just turns away, seeing her face fall as she leaves the room to him and the bodies. He wishes he could say something to her or at least smile. He can’t and he doesn’t. He pulls out a suture kit and gets to work.

When the old voicemail plays on his phone for the fiftieth time, he doesn’t say anything. The words are empty and hollow as they tell him what has happened. He feels numb, he feels broken, like all the edges in him have been broken and the glass cracked. He feels useless, not worth value. The voicemail tells him exactly what he knows, but he can’t stop replaying it, over and over until he doesn’t feel the roughness anymore.

When the news broke two weeks ago that his old friend was dead, he didn’t say anything. He just listened to the lonely voicemail until he fell asleep that night. The next night he dumped his meds and called his sister. His sister hadn’t answered, so he tried to leave a voicemail. He tried, and the beeps sounded and he was left with only the news in his head and a phone in his hand. He couldn’t do it, all he left on the voicemail was silence. Claire still hadn’t called back, but he pretends that he’s fine, just for night. _Just one more day_ , he tells himself every single night. _Just one more day_.

When he attends the service for his friend, he doesn’t say anything. Claire isn’t there, though she had known him. Only his friend’s family and him, standing to the side. They don’t want to talk to him, and he knows he’s going to get punched in the face by the end of the day. Tomorrow he will have to explain, and explaining anything is the last thing he wants to do. He grips the inner side of his left wrist a little harder, trying to remember the feeling of what it was like to feel anything at all. The casket is lowered and the flowers are tossed, and he hates himself for breathing a sigh of relief.

When his father storms into the bar, nights later, he doesn’t say anything. He keeps his mouth shut even when his father tells him to kill himself in hushed tones. He knows this is about the funeral and the awful things he did to put the man there, the things he’s said when he was supposed to _be silent, Connor._ He stares at his drink and then straight at his father, but he can’t hold it for long. His father leans a little too close for his liking and he almost flinches again. The look on his father’s face is awful, a horrible grin. Connor gulps down the last of his gin and leaves, silent.

When there is nothing left that he can say, he writes it down. He writes about everything, he says everything. He does not break the peaceful silence, but the words on the page scream. They scream and shout and he isn’t terrified anymore, he’s numb. He doesn’t want to live like this anymore, the burning sadness running through his body every time someone says anything to him. Every day, the words he says out loud feel like they come from someone else. He doesn’t want to feel so silent anymore, so he writes. By the end, blood from his wrists smears the page and the drugs make his handwriting shaky. As he struggles for breath, he drops the pen and stares at the letter hazily, reading the last few words.

_I have nothing left to say but sorry_

_**********_

  
They find his body the next day, and he is so

very

very

silent. 


End file.
